Raw Faith

Raw Faith

(October 2009)

It exists without conversation

Or much, if any theology

It isn’t wrapped neatly

In a self-sanctified package

In fact…to many,

it

is

Invisible

clouded

by

worn out faces

bowed down heads

glossy eyes

dreams and “success”

choked by survival

but yet

Raw faith stands

It stands

on the bus stop in the prayers

Of a young mother…who needs

To be to work on time

It kneels in the chapel

As tears run down

And faith refuses to run out

It screams when every system

Seems to fight you and the dreams

Of your children

It comforts when gun shots

Ring…sirens blare…

And thoughts of your baby boy 19

Wonder...in fear

Raw Faith shows up

Refusing to go back to sleep

Leaving at 5 to a job which falls short

Every month

When at the edge

It beckons you back

It trickles out of every conversation even

When camouflaged by “words”

At times it is faint, only a whisper from

Weary lips

The size of a mustard seed

A Dialogue.

A Dialogue.

somewhere in the darkness of Oct 2011

Me: rough one Chris

Chris: yea

Me: remember that Cat?

Chris: yea, that was so funny

Me: I loved spending that last hour with you every Wed night

Chris: yea it worked out pretty good, huh?

Me: I wish I knew more how to help you, that I wouldn’t have gotten so burned out--

Chris: I always felt you were available, I just wasn’t ready-

Me: I think when Box was killed you turned a corner-

Chris: I know—I just hurt so bad, and I counldn't make sense.

Me: also when you were with Jubar, Lionel and Will--

Chris: yea, I was so sorry you found out.

Me: You were robbed you know….your academics sucked

Chris: I know--I really saw it at Butte, but didn’t know how to fix it--

Me: that damn weed Chris!!! It numbed you so you couldn’t work hard--you couldn't get to healing

Chris: I know, but there had been so much confusion in my life, my moms, my dad, and then everyone getting killed

ME: yea, you have a pretty special space in my life, and Will’s ….When I saw your mom and grandfather after that night....we laughed and cried-- you were loved…..your were so many people's beloved.

Chris: I know…

Me: I gotta figure out how to take care of me
Chris: yep…. you can’t make someone do anything….but Sundance—I always knew.

i felt it coming

i felt it coming

written in the darker hours of 2011

i was lying on the bottom of the pool
my lungs half full
and i can't get up

i felt it coming…

i was trying to hold on

to make things right

to fight the good fight

my feet were slipping

my eyes dry

but my tears wet

the sickness came and

laid me down

and my mind began to spin

images from years back

intermixed with yesterday

sadness, deep, deep sadness took

as my mind drained through my eyes

i was running

and didn’t stop

didn’t resist

couldn’t really

and then covered it up

like it

wasn’t really there

not looking at you

for fear I’d

hear what you were saying

trust

power

faith

mercy

love

seeing so soberly how I escape

is a trap

insidiously designed

to bind and destroy me

saturated and overflowing

hope turned into dismay

foggy from pain and chaos

hanging on by a thread

tired to my bones

afraid my path

has ended

my medication

turned to addiction

and tainted the 20 years

of attempt

forgotten first love

dry actions

empty promises

belief and denial

twisted into

a dead stare

as I write gunshots pop

and sirens blare

20 year olds

lie in the middle of the street

mothers scream

and brother’s rage

guns reloaded

hommies brace themselves

little boys hold

daddy’s hands

“why? “

“because bad things happen to bad people”

he explains

with silent prayers

desperately begging

god to spare his baby boy

from this madness

my mind become numb

unable to take more

more knowledge

of things gone bad

grappling with words

that might explain

might heal

might just impact

one

that I might

remember the

many many

miracles

for my godson

for my godson

Tears rolling down your cheeks

like bullet shells dropping to the ground

one life lost

15 more dressed in white, dazed by confusion

anger, fear and pain --years old,

whispers

insidiously demanding

payback

screaming revenge

the young brother with a similar whisper

and same dazed look

your target

you spin in and out of

the child with chubby cheeks

and big dreams

and the mask that covers 

all  things

good, and, natural, and beautiful

voices speak out muffled pleas

to stand

stand up

you wonder where your legs went

cut off long ago

a mother sobs

focusing your daze

a homeboy’s cry

becomes contagious

only nobody knows where it starts or stops

fingers clinch triggers

clapping at anything

that might relieve your pain

only to find it circles back around

like a dog chasing its tail

there are no winners

only loss

deep altering loss

Oh child beautiful child

let your tears roll

like white flags of surrender

let them cleanse you soul

lay down your head and listen

to the voice of Truth

the one who Loves you

and calls you by name

a bruised reed He will not break

a smoldering wick

He will not snuff out

lean back

And wait

for He is faithful

to heal your broken heart

to bring back 

things you thought were lost

He can redeem you

your sister, your brother,

your cousins, your partners

they don’t have to die in vain

you are not your father

absent, angry, addicted

you are not your mother

weary, worn, wounded

stand up

your legs are not gone

for He renews

the strength of the weary.

stare down the lie

and stand

revenge, confusion and death only muffles hope

for it cannot be destroyed

his Love remains

his Plans are still For Good

not for harm

He has the final word

and you are not alone

the cry of a crackhead

As I looked at my phone my stomach sank. It was on silence and I had missed several calls, calls that came from one section of my city, repeat calls, calls from the police chaplaincy...I knew they could only mean one thing. As I hung up the phone, memories of the little boy on a bike, at camp, always with an ornery grin, in trouble a lot of the time. He had grown up, into a bigger boy, in a car, on the street still with and ornery grin, and in trouble a lot of the time. I drove over to the scene, and was escorted to where his mother stood, close to his body lying on the sidewalk. I heard her call my name, and began to weep. As I stood there holding her up, I remembered her daughter who had been brutally stabbed to death 7 years ago, her younger son who had died of a heart disease, and now she stood by her third dead child.  The rest of the scene was not unlike most murder scenes...yellow tape, blue/red lights, police and detectives scuffling around looking for evidence...muffled sobs of mother/grandmother/and baby mama. The young men saying little, but anger, fear and pain begin to melt into a silent rage...muted emotions hardening the already weary heart. At each corner the crowd begins to gather, whispering the same muted questions...Who did it? Where’s his mother? Where’s his brother...his kids. 

This night, as I walked back to my car, I stopped to talk to some friends. We too, whispered muted memories and fears of revenge as a beat up old car slowed, its driver wanting to speak. It was an old kid and her friend; both had succumbed to the addiction of crack. She asked what happened, and I told her who had been shot and killed. As I was finishing my sentence, both her and her friend let out a scream and began loudly sobbing. I could hear their weeping as the car slowly drove all the way down the street.

As I laid down that night, the sound of the two "crackheads" weeping would not leave. The piercing, un-muted, unmonitored, non calculated cry was actually appropriate. It mirrored the truth, an accurate response to a young son, brother, father, friend shot down in the middle of the street. It had no time to judge, reason or excuse...it simply escaped and shattered the muted pain beneath the surface of so many of us there that night.

Truthfully, I believe it echoed the heart of the Living God. The one who hears our cries, and knows the depth of pain that comes with living in a chaotic place, void of true love. The honesty of the cries that night, tore back the silence of God, the Lover of our souls, and pierced the darkness through the voice of broken, but beautifully loved humans.

we will spare no expense

As the media voiced it's anger of the hanius crime...a shooting leaving 3 month baby Izack dead and his parents wounded..I heard our Mayor's comment "we will spare no expense to catch these baby killers". In a vacuum all this is true, outside of the vacuum it is true...but it is not alone.What happens when the "baby killer" is only a baby?
My mind continues to work hard to find the words, to articulate the dilemma that many of us feel....as we weep for the family of the baby killed, and with the babies that killed.
Today everyone wants justice...swift, direct and harsh.
Today everyone cares about the young Latino family with 2 kids, today everything is clear...there is black...there is white.
Yesterday...justice wasn't the word on the street...no one came running when communities were buried in poverty and unemployment. No one cared that a mom worked in the
'big house" while paid under the table, too small of an amount to make ends meet. No one cried for justice when he rode 50 min to a high school that never wanted him and found him 3 grades levels behind his peers. I heard no one outraged as he sat on my step crying...tired of being broke, scared, and lonely. These guns, the ones used in the death of baby Izack,  were not hard to get, nor is this the first or 1000th gun made easily accessable, and still I've heard no media out cries.
The truth is we have spared all expense, prior to this call for Justice. We cut the funding for youth programs, we stomped out the Dream Act, turned a blind eye to the "risk factors of  gang violence" and a deaf ear to poor families and their concerns. We have overwhemlemed our school systems, impacted juvenile systems and ignored rehibiltation options.

If convicted, we have a baby, killer, who killed a baby. a symptom of much bigger issues...bubbling under our silence.

Peace on Earth Good Will to Men

I was thinking about Christmas this year. About a little baby...born in Bethlehem. Then I thought about the Shepards, tending their sheep...when angels from heaven appeared from no where... I imagine the Angels' so excited to give the good news...the GREAT news. Maybe even pushing and shoving (in a very angelic like fashion) to be in the front row..to see the faces up close. You see, they have seen us in our fallen state. They have heard the whole world moaning to be set right. They have watched as we wept, as we fell out of our purpose, as we limped, only a small shadow of who we were created to be. I imagine that the angels heard the unfamiliar crack of the God of the Universe's heart breaking, and the conversations which lead to the birth of the baby/God. I imagine how the angel's must have felt...to be able to relieve the pain in our eyes with the big announcement. I'm not sure who decided what was going to be said...I imagine it was God...but I know the angels had to be thrilled!!! Behold!!! Listen...don't miss this!...we've seen the chaos, we've heard your cries... Peace on Earth!!!! Good will to men!!! It is here!!! All that you have longed for...He did it!!!!
Today I am wondering what they must think? Are they confused? Bewildered? Maybe angry? Do they question if we can hear? If we can see? Where is the simple peace? The good will towards others? How can we so quickly forget all that this birth means? How do we worry and and not lean into His promises? We are to busy with own selves, positioning, posturing, climbing to think of others. It seems as if Peace and Good will are hard to find, hard to handle and hard to keep. In this chaotic world, I can still hear the angels sing...well more like plead. It's here, in the manger, His Name is Emmanuel (God with us)...kneel down, bring your gifts and you will find it.